


all i never said

by fictionalparadises



Category: Minecraft (Video Game), Video Blogging RPF
Genre: Angst, Angst with a Happy Ending, Fluff, Fluff and Angst, Internal Conflict, Letters, Love Confessions, Love Letters, M/M, Pining, Romantic Friendship, i poured my heart and soul into this please read
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-01-17
Updated: 2021-01-24
Packaged: 2021-03-15 14:07:17
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 5,737
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28814631
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/fictionalparadises/pseuds/fictionalparadises
Summary: This is not a love letter.
Relationships: Clay | Dream & GeorgeNotFound (Video Blogging RPF), Clay | Dream/GeorgeNotFound (Video Blogging RPF)
Comments: 32
Kudos: 172
Collections: MCYT





	1. dear george

**Author's Note:**

> wrote this because i love Pain™

Dear George,

Yesterday was the first day of spring, and I couldn’t sleep. That’s nothing new, really, you know just as well as I do how messed up my sleep schedule is. Normally I wouldn’t have minded.

Normally I would’ve called someone, just to talk until I’d fizzle into sleep. But Sapnap was busy, and Bad wasn’t at home, and you… I haven’t talked to you in a long time. Not like that, anyway.

It’s been age since we talked. Actually talked, I mean. The streams we’re on together every now and then don’t count.

I’m not sure why I’m writing this letter to you. I hope it doesn’t overwhelm you like it did me. But I was lying in bed last night, thinking about us, going over the _when’s_ and _how’s_ and _what-if’s_. Sleep deprivation and confusion do that to a person, I suppose.

But the ceiling is just the ceiling when I’m not talking to you about the most nonsensical stuff.

I drove across the I-4 down to Orlando yesterday. I’d spent all day at my mom’s house, but I wanted to go home for dinner so Patches wouldn’t be alone for too long—you know how she gets when there’s no one around for an entire day.

I’d barely made it ten miles before I got stuck in traffic. There I was, sitting in my car at five in the afternoon, knowing it would probably take hours before I would get home, and I couldn’t stop thinking about this memory in the back of my head.

Do you remember when we got stuck in traffic on the I-4? I think that was the second time you visited Florida, or maybe it was the third. We were in the car for hours, so long that we eventually started hearing the same songs on the radio again. The only thing we had were jellybeans, and I kept giving you the red and green ones on purpose, knowing you disliked those the most, and at one point you were so fed up you threw them all back at me.

I was still finding jellybeans under my car seat weeks after you’d left.

We spent that evening watching the sunset from my car, waiting for the accident ahead to be cleared. The sky must’ve been pretty, because you wouldn’t shut up about the amount of different shades of orange you could count, and I just nodded in agreement, but in reality, I was watching you. I remember watching you, because you were pretty, prettier than any view at that time. Soft sunlight coloring your face and casting shadows on your skin.

I couldn’t stop thinking about that moment yesterday as I was sitting in my car—I was still thinking about it by the time I got home. I watched the sunset, and I counted the shades of orange, and I waited for the sun to disappear beneath the horizon, but it wasn’t the same.

Maybe _I_ wasn’t the same.

I don’t remember how we got like this. I don’t know how we went from spending every minute of every day together to barely speaking twice a month, or why. Looking back on it, it probably happened over weeks, months. Perhaps it was the hard work, the demanding schedule, or maybe the fact that our social circle expanded so much we kind of forgot about each other.

I could call you right now, and you’d undoubtedly pick up the phone. We would make some small talk, polite conversation, _how have you been’s_ and _any plans for the future?_ If I texted, you’d reply, maybe not as fast as you used to, but you’d reply. So I’m not sure why I am writing this letter.

I don’t want small talk. I don’t want polite conversation.

I’ve been thinking a long time about writing this, and in that case, what I would write. What’s there to be said? What amends do I make? How do I say I’m sorry that I didn’t apologize—for not stopping us from drifting apart, for not trying harder, for giving up sooner rather than later?

And if I said that I do, now, would you believe it?

Maybe I’m writing a letter because it’s easy. Easier than calling you, or texting you, or facing you. It’s just me at the dining table, pen in my hand, ink stains on my fingers. It should feel no different from writing a grocery list.

But it’s not easy. It’s not just writing.

I’ve written this letter three times already. All of those attempts are crumpled into balls and tossed somewhere near the bin. There’s so much I can say, so much I want to tell you, but it’s like I can’t find the right words.

It feels like I’m rushing this. But I’ve already waited too long.

It’s Tuesday today, and it’s been exactly one month since you broke up with your girlfriend. When you read this, it will be even longer. We haven’t really talked about it—not one on one, at least. I’ve heard you mention it in a VC, but you waved it off before anyone could actually ask about it.

I hope you’ve been well. I hope you’re dealing alright with the breakup, best you can, at least. I know it can be difficult to get out of a relationship. Remember to eat, okay? And I’ve told you this a million times before, but putting all your clothes in the washing machine without sorting them on color is _fine_ , trust me. 

I know how you can get at a low point. As long as you keep trying, you’re going to be alright, George.

And about your girlfriend: sometimes things don’t work out, and I think that’s okay.

Letting go is hard, but it will get easier over time. That’s one thing I can guarantee you. You don’t have to do it all at once; little pieces here and there, letting memories slip through your fingers, painting over the scars inch by inch.

Maybe there will be parts you can never let go. I _know_ there will be parts you can never let go.

Sometimes, we love people in ways that change who we are, fundamental alterations that can’t be undone. I used to be scared of that—how do I love someone, knowing they have the power to change me, knowing they have the power to hurt me, too?

You embrace the pain.

That’s what I did.

This is not a goodbye letter, nor is it one of regret. This is… my apology, of sorts, an olive branch, a white flag. I don’t want to make this letter a highlight reel—I can’t keep running away from the mess we made. The mess I’d taken a starring role in. But I’d be lying, to myself, to you, if I didn’t say that some of my happiest moments were with you.

Do you remember the first time you came to Florida? We cried both times at the airport, first because you’d arrived, and then because you had to leave (I know you cried, don’t try to deny it. Those goggles couldn’t fool me). I vaguely recall thinking the first time that I hugged you that I would never get a better hug in my life.

That was a lie, obviously. The second time you came to Florida, the hug was even better. It almost felt like every time I saw you, it had improved.

I know I used to make fun of your height a lot, but if you want the truth, I think the height difference between us is perfect in every way—you slot in my arms like they were made to hold you.

The last time I hugged you is nearly two years ago, I think. It might as well have been a lifetime.

Most of the time, I hear from Sapnap how you’re holding up. I never ask, but he always tells me, still. I’m more grateful for that than I care to admit to him, though he probably knows. He always knows more than he lets on, always has. I think he might have a sixth sense.

He’s the middle person now—I wonder if he minds. I wonder if he blames us for letting go of what we had.

I do. I blame mostly myself.

The second time you came to Florida, and Sapnap couldn’t be there until two weeks later because of school, it was pretty clear that he was upset about it. He wouldn’t stop calling us, no matter if we were chilling at my house, doing nothing for the entire day. I remember that one time when we went to 7/11 right after we’d gotten groceries, and our total from snacks was higher than our total at Target. Sapnap called right as we were at the register, cussing us out for getting no more than three vegetables but a huge mountain of snacks, and we were both laughing so hard that it took me a full minute for my fingers to stop shaking so I could pay. The cashier must’ve hated us, but that was the last thing I was worried about.

I wasn’t worried about anything in that moment. I was never worried when I was with you.

Sometimes, on stream, chat still asks about your visits. They’ll ask me about my favorite moments, and then I usually have to close my eyes for a moment, push myself away a little so it doesn’t hurt too much to think about. In reality, it’s impossible to pick a favorite moment with you, because every minute spent together was a good one.

But if I had to choose, I think my favorite moments might be the small ones. Yes, going to Disneyland was amazing, and going out in Orlando was fun, but I loved more than anything to sit at home with you, to huddle together behind my monitor, washed in blue light, shoulders and thighs pressed together. I watched you code, fingers flying over the keyboard, brows furrowed in concentration, lips parted slightly. It was no different than staying up entire nights to write code for a new video, both of us behind a computer screen, but it was a whole other experience. This time, there was no ocean to separate us, no 4316 miles between you and me. I’d never felt like that before.

Remember the third time you came to Florida, and we were in that Airbnb right outside the city for a few days? That was mid-summer, and it was too fucking hot to not spend every minute of daylight near water. That Airbnb was probably the shittiest house I’ve ever stayed at, but it had a pool, and that’s really all that mattered to us in that moment.

There was only one of those plastic pool chairs, the other one was broken, and I remember claiming it for the entire day until you got out of the pool, dripping cold water, and basically draped yourself over me. It was late afternoon, so the temperature was dropping until it was comfortably warm, but I was too hot, and you were so close.

We laid there for hours, until the water had evaporated and only the scent of chlorine stuck to you. It was uncomfortable in a comfortable way—warm bodies sticking to the plastic of the chair, so that every time you so much as moved, it’d feel like your skin would get ripped off, but I was lying there with you, and then that didn’t matter anymore.

I remember what we were like, legs tangled on the single bed that wasn’t broken, cold cans of too-sweet soda on the side table. I can’t— _won’t_ —forget how you looked at me then. Smiling bright, the skin next to your eyes crinkled, your gaze careless, hopeful.

You told me to sit still so you could count the freckles on my face, and I had to hold my breath to stop myself from spilling all over. A part of me wishes I would’ve told you how I felt in that exact moment. A part of me is glad I didn’t.

You looked… ethereal, hair wildly ruffled from the way it’d dried, goggles balanced on the bridge of your nose, grin splitting your face. 

That might have been the happiest moment of my life.

The third time you came to Florida, things were different. I didn’t know what had changed until two months later, when I realized it had been… strained, almost, because you were head over heels with her. Looking back on it, I didn’t think there was one day where you didn’t mention her, eyes glued to your phone as you waited for the notifications to trickle in. It was just a crush, then, but Sapnap wouldn’t stop teasing you for it. He helped you reply to texts nonetheless.

I didn’t know why it made me feel so weird, so desolate—denial is a strange emotion. I didn’t know until months afterwards, when you guys made your relationship public, and I couldn’t avoid the pictures of you together on any social media platform. People kept tagging me in posts, asking me about it on stream, commenting stupid jokes under videos.

Why was I hurting? You were dating someone, and I was supposed to be happy for you—I _was_ happy for you.

But every time I thought of you with her, and every time you told about your plans and your week and you were all giggly because of her, my throat would close up and my chest would tighten until I couldn’t breathe.

That was the beginning of the end. That’s why I pulled away, I think, even if it was unconsciously. Self-protection. You were happy, that was all that mattered to me, and I couldn’t let me spoil that for you. My bitter words and tense smiles couldn’t ruin that happiness—I wouldn’t let them.

I’m selfish, but I’m not that selfish.

You still smiled like you did on the pool bed in the middle of summer, clung to my side. You just didn’t smile for me anymore.

There was one night where you cancelled on one of my streams, because you were going out for dinner with her. I don’t know why that got to me so bad, but I remember calling Sapnap in the middle of the night, hours after I ended the stream. I was in a frenzy, complete shambles, blurting every word that surfaced like throwing up sour bile. Sapnap barely understood what I was saying, but he told me, carefully, that maybe it’d be good for me to take a step back. Give me—us—some space.

The first time you told me you’d asked her to be your girlfriend, that you’d made it official, I felt everything at once. Happiness, fear, pain, sorrow. Regret.

I was angry at first, I think. Those first few months I was angry, just the thought of you with someone else making my blood boil under my skin. Every time you talked about her, and I had to pretend to be happy for you, the words I spoke left a bitter taste in my mouth.

It was a pile of ash on my tongue that I couldn’t swallow nor spit out.

I was angry at you. It felt like you left me, in some weird way, you had one foot out the door and mine were both stuck in the floor. It felt like you’d replaced me, even if you hadn’t. I was angry because I thought we had something special, and to me it felt like you had thrown that right out the window.

I would stare at my ceiling in the middle of the night, and I’d wonder: am I that easy to forget?

But maybe angry isn’t the right word for it. It was a combination of emotions: fear of losing you, regret for the things I had and hadn’t done, grief for what we could have had but didn’t.

Most of it was in my head. Once you start overthinking, you can’t stop. It’s like digging your own grave—I did, in the end.

In my fear of losing you, I did exactly that: I lost you.

In retrospect, I wasn’t angry at you. I was angry at myself. I mistook those feelings for something else, like I did before so many times. By the time I realized this, it was already too late. I’d pushed you away too far, let us drift astray until I couldn’t reach you anymore. I was floating in the middle of the ocean, alone, my voice ringing across the water with no one to hear.

The truth, ugly and painful and sharp, forced its way down my lungs, burning my throat until I couldn’t breathe anymore. I drowned in misunderstandings and uncomprehended feelings and words I hadn’t said. 

Funny enough, I talked to my dad about it. My dad, of all people. I hadn’t seen him in nearly a year, but he came over for dinner one night so we could catch up. Even before we got to the food, he looked at me and asked me what was wrong.

In a way, it was freeing to tell him. I told him all of it, every last detail, until every twinge of heartache in my chest was laid bare. Until there was nowhere to dig deeper, nothing to uncover anymore.

And my dad? He listened. For hours. He watched me the entire time, the look on his face incomprehensible, brows furrowed slightly. After I finished my story, after I’d cried my eyes out while realization slowly creeped in, after my cheeks were red and painful from scrubbing the tears away, he squeezed my hand and told me that love is a complicated thing.

Love is as deadly as it is captivating.

He said, “Sometimes it’s better to give up and let go than to persevere and lose yourself along the way.” I thought long and hard about those words, even weeks after we had that conversation.

I sat in bed later that night, covers pooling around my waist, hands in my hair. _I can’t do this,_ I thought. Then: _And even if I can’t, I have to._

I didn’t want to let go. I didn’t want to let go of you, of the endless nights spent on discord, of the sleepcalls that went on for so long that we’d both see the sunrise, of the laughs that made me feel more than words could.

Can you remember the last night you were in Florida? Because I can; I remember it with painful clarity. We were sitting outside, not caring that it had rained, our clothes getting soaked from the wet grass, shoulders and knees pressed together like every inch of skin that wasn’t touching would be a waste. We’d been drinking from the moment the clock hit five p.m. in an attempt to forget the fact that you were going home the next day.

We were watching the stars, though we couldn’t see shit, it was too cloudy for that. Trading thoughts in the quiet of the night. At one point, you turned to me, eyes suddenly wide in something that might’ve been despair. I don’t know why I remember it so vividly, but you asked, “We won’t forget each other, right?”

Of course not, I’d replied.

Still, I ask myself: how could I ever forget you, George?

We made a pinky promise, your finger hooked around mine. For some reason, we didn’t let go, and instead we sat watching the clouds with our hands intertwined.

I wonder if you knew, in that moment. I wonder if you knew that things were going to change, whether that was because you liked her, or because you were going home again with unspoken words heavy between us, or because maybe you were done waiting.

Maybe you never felt the same way I did. Maybe I am foolish to make assumptions. But I can’t forget the way you used to look at me. 

That must’ve meant something, right?

After that conversation with my dad, something changed. I didn’t want to let go of you. I don’t think I could have done that in the first place. But maybe I could let go of the feelings.

I wrote you letters. I wrote you letters every single day.

With every page I scribbled to maximum capacity, I tried to write away the feelings. With every blotch of ink that spread on the paper, I tried to chip off shards from my bleeding heart.

I did that for months. I filled an entire journal, and it’s full of every ugly and pained thought that I had. I spilled every ounce of envy and yearning on the flimsy pages.

I considered burning it. Multiple times. I stared at my fireplace, listened to the wood crackle, held the journal clenched in my hands, but I couldn’t bring myself to fling it into the flames. Because along the bitter words, there’s fondness twined into every sentence. There’s love in the cracked spine and warmth in the dog-eared pages and tenderness in my scrawny handwriting.

Letting go, that had been the objective, but in writing in that journal I had managed to do the opposite. I realized that the last thing on earth I wanted to do was to let go.

I stopped writing a few months ago. I’d already crammed one journal with the entirety of my thoughts about you, I wasn’t about to go down the wrong path again and fill another.

Perhaps I didn’t need to let go—perhaps I needed to learn how to navigate my feelings. If I learned to live with how I felt, if I learned not to stir that certain part of me, maybe then things could go back to normal.

Often, during the late hours of the night where sleep deprivation and restlessness pushed me to the edge of despair, I wished we could go back to the way things were. And then I suddenly understood: I’ll never be that me again. And the thing is, even if I could go back, I wouldn’t belong there anymore.

We both changed so much. I still haven’t decided if that’s for the better or the worse.

That realization made it easier, I think. The puzzle was the same, but the pieces had changed. Maybe I could do this, after all. Maybe I could live in a world where you didn’t love me back and still be okay.

Acceptance is a long process. I’m still working through it.

But then you talked about me on stream a couple weeks ago. Chat wouldn’t stop asking about me, for some reason, why we didn’t talk as often anymore. You said you missed me. And: “Dream probably hates me, anyway.” It was a joke, but I could hear the tremor in your voice.

I know you, George. Inside and out. Sometimes I think I know you better than I know myself.

And the truth? I do hate you. More than anyone on earth.

I hate you because you hold such power over me. I take one step forward and you slam me two steps back. One word and I’d grovel in the dirt on my knees—it scares me how far I’d go for you. I hate you for _that._

But I could never actually hate you. Maybe it’s more resentment towards myself, for _letting_ you do this to me.

For a long time, I thought you were my salvation. Now I realize you were my end.

Loving you was the most beautiful form of self-destruction I’ve ever known.

Dying at your hands—it sounds peaceful. I’ve died countless times already, little pieces of me breaking off and bleeding out by your doing. I am made of porcelain, and your fingers are meant to shatter me into a million pieces. Break me beyond repair—I was only ever yours to begin with.

Undo me. I will smile as I go.

You know, you never told me why you broke up with her. You made some vague comments about it on stream once, but I don’t think you actually told anyone, not even Sapnap. It’s stupid, but I can’t help but let my mind wander. When you said that sometimes things aren’t meant to be, did you mean that? When you said that sometimes we make mistakes but don’t realize we did until months later, were you being sincere?

I can’t help but wonder what you meant by that.

I can’t help but wonder if you miss me the way that I miss you.

So much has changed over the course of two years. It’s dizzying, almost, to think back on that. Whatever we are now, I still remember the way we were.

Staying up until four in the morning so we could talk and pretend there wasn’t an ocean separating us. Listening to your laugh, bright and vibrant, even through the static-y discord call. Helping you code even if you never needed my help for anything in that area ever. Strolling around the 24-hour Target to buy shit we didn’t need, shoulders bumping together as we walked. Driving to the beach where I spent basically half my childhood while the sun was setting and swimming in the cold, salt water that had been a barrier between us for years on end, and now finally being able to hold you, body warm where it was pressed against mine. Trying not to get recognized in Disneyland, because the first day we barely managed to go on three different rides. Seeing you tweet at ungodly hours of the night and facetiming you while I got out of bed to make pancakes at three a.m.

Loving you, unconditionally, unapologetically. Knowing you loved me, too.

Do you still remember the way I made you smile?

During my darkest nights, I can’t stop myself from wondering what we could have been. I can’t stop my mind from going places it should not. What would we be like if we tried a little harder, were a little clearer? What would have happened if I leaned in instead of pulled away?

We lived a love of almost, and maybe that’s what hurts more than anything.

But in the end, what never was, or what could have been, meant more to me than anything else.

Then there’s also nights where I wonder why I even bother. I’ve been working on this letter for ages now, trying to think of things to say that would make you un-hate me. I put in all this effort, but we’ve drifted apart so far already. If I shout across the water, would you hear me? More importantly, would you _want_ to hear me?

I wonder why I bother. But then I remember that the best kind of love is one worth fighting for. I made you a promise on a rainy night in September. I intend to keep it.

I am sorry, George. I’m sorry for the mistakes I made. I’m sorry for pulling away. I’m sorry for the nights you needed me and I wasn’t there.

This letter is all of me, every piece of truth there is to show you, every inch of my soul laid bare. I’ve never done this before, and I don’t know what’s going through your head. I don’t know what’s going to happen now. But I needed you to know this—all of it. 

All I can hope is that you won’t hate me after this.

You know my side of the story now. It’s up to you what to do with it. Burn the pages, cut it into pieces, do whatever you wish. If this was it, then I understand. I’m grateful for the years I’ve had. You’ve made me who I am, George. Wherever we head now, whether that’s separate roads or a joint one, know that I am eternally grateful to have had you in my life, regardless of what way I had you.

I won’t tell you that I miss you—but I do.

We won’t forget each other, right?

Yours forever,

Dream


	2. dear dream

George’s fingers are trembling. His knuckles have turned white by how tight his right hand is clenching the edge of the kitchen counter, holding onto the marble like his life depends on it. His other hand is holding up a single page, the last one out of the dozen he’d pulled out of the envelope this morning.

Some pages are creased, the corners folded or wrinkled. Some lines are crossed out, and a lot is written in several different pens, the ink bleeding and smudged across the paper. The handwriting gets steadily messier the more vulnerable the words get.

George had recognized the handwriting by just his address on the envelope. He hadn’t known what to expect, but it was not— _this._

He read the letter this morning, then read it again immediately after. His fingers are trembling as he holds the pages in his hands.

His fingers are still trembling by the time he’s standing at the airport, plane ticket clenched in his hands.

-

 _You’re going to see Dream again,_ he thinks. The thought won’t leave him alone, keeps him awake the entirety of the flight. _You’re going to see Dream again._

It tastes different every time.

-

Maybe he should have let Dream known that he was going here, he thinks as he stands before his house.

Too late for that now.

Dream’s expression falls the moment he opens the door, undiluted shock crossing his face in a flash of realization.

They share at each other for a long moment. George’s blood pounds in his ears, his breathing a little ragged. Then he staggers a step forward and hugs Dream so tight it almost hurts.

The height difference is astounding. George has forgotten how much they differed. _Perfect in every way._

He’s read the letter so many times he has almost completely memorized it.

“What—what are you doing here?” Dream stammers, eyes flitting back and forth between George’s face and the backpack slung over his shoulders.

“I had to see you,” George says softly. It starts raining outside, so Dream pulls him inside and immediately takes a step back.

They move to the kitchen, where Dream makes him tea, back turned to him as he talks about the weather in Florida. “Rain season just started,” he says offhandedly.

George sits at the kitchen counter, chin propped up on a hand, watching Dream in contemplative silence. He dares a glance over his shoulder to the dining table, where Patches is asleep on one of the chairs, and imagines, just for a moment, what it would have looked like: Dream at the table in the middle of the night, loose papers scattered on the surface, ink stains on his fingers. Bags under his eyes, hair hanging in his face, dim light bathing him in hues of yellow.

They make some shallow conversation. George talks about his cat. Dream tells a story about his sisters. The tension is thick, almost tangible, in the air between them: Dream is leaning against the opposite side of the kitchen counter, arms crossed over his chest, as far away from George as the kitchen allows. His body is tense, and he barely meets George’s gaze as he talks.

“D’you want anything else to drink?” He asks the moment George puts his mug down, and doesn’t wait for an answer before he plucks the ceramic from the counter and turns his back on George.

George just watches. Wonders how he has to bring up the inevitable. He can’t just jump into it headfirst, though they both know why he’s here.

_You sent me a letter to confess your love. I didn’t think twice about jumping on the first plane to Orlando to see the truth for myself. Did you mean it?_

George unzips his backpack and rummages through his stuff. Then he pulls out the envelope, a little creased, the pages worn from where he’s worried the material between his fingertips. He’s lost count of how many times he’s read it.

He places it on the counter with careful tenderness. Dream turns his head, freezing at the sight of it.

Slowly, George pushes himself off the stool and walks around the kitchen island, until there’s no more than two feet between them. If he reached out his arm right now, he could grab Dream’s hand.

Dream turns around with a doubtful, alarmed look on his face, eyes glassy. “I—”

“Is this the truth?” George asks, voice quiet. “Did you mean it?”

Dream’s gaze flicks between George and the envelope on the counter behind him. Then his chin dips in a nod.

 _It’s not in my nature to forgive easily,_ Dream had said to him once, during a late night call years ago. George steps forward and gently wraps his arms around Dream’s waist and thinks, _but it is in mine._

He can feel Dream hesitate, but after a second, Dream puts his arms around George’s shoulders and pulls him closer.

George tightens his arms a little. In response, Dream closes his fists in George’s shirt and presses his face into the crook of George’s neck. A muffled sob breaks the silence, and then Dream’s shaking, his body trembling the way George’s hands did.

They stand there for minutes, in the middle of the kitchen, holding onto each other. Neither of them makes a move to pull away. It’s almost as if they stand there for long enough, then maybe it will make up for the time they lost.

 _For a long time, I thought you were my salvation,_ Dream had written. _Now I realize you were my end._

The words had knocked the breath out of George’s lungs the first time he read them, and the second time, and the third.

George can taste the salt of tears—he doesn’t know if they’re Dream’s or his—and he rises to his toes to press his lips against the side Dream’s face. Dream tightens his arms even more, almost like he’s afraid that George will disappear if he lets go.

“My love,” he whispers against the warm skin of his cheek, squeezing his eyes shut, “our story is only beginning.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> thank you for reading <3 come find me on twitter @sundaycore !!


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